Page 1 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

KATYA

T he car jerks to a stop in front of a hulking Victorian monstrosity, all turrets and peeling white paint. I stare up at it, feeling absolutely nothing. No awe. No wonder. Just a deep, profound sense of irritation.

This is it? This is what all the fuss was about?

I open the door and step out onto the cracked driveway, the stale, humid air of wherever-the-hell-we-are clinging to my skin. America. Land of the free, home of the tasteless.

Behind me, Alexy climbs out of the car, slamming the door shut harder than necessary. He’s trying to act calm, composed. As if we belong here. As if we don’t both know this place is a gilded cage waiting to snap shut.

I turn toward him, arching a brow. “This is the house?”

He tugs his leather jacket tighter around his shoulders, glancing up at the towering thing like it personally offended him. “It’s an American house, Katya,” he says with a shrug. “What did you expect?”

I curl my lip. “Something with taste. Maybe walls that aren’t rotting at the edges.”

Alexy snorts under his breath and steps forward, his boots crunching on the gravel. “It’s tasteless and classless. Fits the people who built it.”

I follow, the heels of my boots clicking sharply, defiantly, against the driveway. Every step feels heavier here. More dangerous.

Back home, I knew the rules. I knew who to charm, who to deceive, who to gut if it came to that.

But here? This country smells different. Tastes different. Bleeds different. And if I’m not careful, it’ll devour me whole.

The heavy front door looms closer with every step, its dark wood cracked and weathered like everything else around here. A fitting welcome, really. Peeling paint. Empty windows. A house pretending to be grand while rotting from the inside out.

Just like the people waiting for me inside.

A strange, ugly feeling churns low in my stomach. Not fear. No, I don’t do fear. It’s something meaner curling inside me. Like I’m being led to slaughter with a crown shoved on my head.

“Bring my suitcase, Alexy,” I say, my voice sweet enough to rot teeth.

He gives me a look. One of those tight-lipped, barely-holding-it-together looks that reminds me we’re cousins first, allies second, and only when it suits him.

“I’m not your valet,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move away.

I plant my hand on my hip and lift my chin, the perfect picture of bratty defiance. “If I’m to marry our worst rival,” I say lightly, “the least you can do is carry my luggage. Be careful,” I add. “My wedding dress is in there.”

For a moment, I think he might leave it just to spite me. He’s never liked this arrangement—me, shipped off like a bargaining chip—but we both know better than to say it out loud.

With a grunt of reluctant acceptance, Alexy bends and hefts the battered suitcase out of the trunk. His movements are jerky, annoyed, as if the very idea of touching my things offends him.

Good. Let it offend him.

If I’m walking into hell wrapped in white silk and empty promises, the least he can do is carry the damn baggage.

I trail a step behind him, the cracked path leading us closer to the massive double doors. The house looms overhead, casting a long shadow across the gravel.

Somewhere deep in my chest, something tightens—a cold knot twisting harder with every step. But I don’t let it show.

I smile, because that’s what they expect from Katya Riazanova—the spoiled, thoughtless girl with ice in her veins and silk on her skin.

And if I’m going to survive this, it’s exactly what they’ll keep seeing.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Alexy shifts the suitcase higher in his arms as he trudges ahead of me. Over his shoulder, he mutters, “Yeah, I know. The aunts spent hours sewing every damn bead.”

I smirk, even though my stomach twists. The aunts bled their fingers dry stitching that dress, pouring what little pride we had left into silk and pearls. A dress meant to dazzle. To distract.

It won’t.

Ahead, the front doors loom taller, heavier. No guards. No servants waiting outside.

Alexy mutters again, low enough that only I hear, “He didn’t even send anyone to greet us.”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. We both know exactly what that means.

We have nothing left to offer.

No fortune. No soldiers. No territories that matter here. Only a last name that still carries weight back home—and even that is fading.

Bakum Novikov doesn’t see this as a union. He sees it as a favor. A burden.

And I am the payment.

The door creaks open as Alexy shoves it, the heavy wood groaning like a dying man. Inside, the house smells like old wood polish, dust, and something faintly metallic—blood, maybe, or just the ghosts of it.

A man waits just inside the foyer, arms crossed, wearing a cheap suit that doesn’t quite hide the bulge of the gun at his hip. His dark eyes flick over Alexy with a bored sweep…then land on me.

Another figure moves behind him—an older woman, maybe late fifties, draped in too much jewelry and heavy perfume that doesn’t quite mask the sourness in the air.

Her eyes rake over me like a butcher inspecting meat, pausing on my boots, my hands, my face. She doesn’t bother hiding her disdain.

And just like that, I hate her.

With a small, sharp smile, I lift my chin higher, pretending her inspection means nothing. Pretending my blood doesn’t boil under my skin.

I’m Katya Riazanova—and I learned long ago that a pretty face and a vicious heart can be the sharpest weapons in the room.

The man in the suit steps forward, his face carved from apathy.

“You’re late,” he says, voice flat. No greeting. No welcome. Just that little jab, sharp enough to draw blood.

Alexy tightens his grip on the suitcase, but says nothing.

I flash the man a slow, lazy smile—the kind that used to make my father grind his teeth. “Fashionably late,” I purr. “It’s expected, isn’t it? For a bride?”

The lieutenant doesn’t even blink. Just turns, jerking his chin toward the cavernous hallway behind him. “This way.”

As we move to follow, the older woman steps directly into my path, forcing me to halt or run into her. Up close, the sourness of her perfume is even worse, clinging to her like a second skin. Her cold gaze drags over me again, lingering on my boots, my leather jacket, my bare throat.

Not good enough, her eyes say. Not nearly.

“At least she’s…presentable,” she murmurs, like I’m a piece of livestock being sold at auction. “Though I’d advise hiding those wrists. We wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re damaged goods.”

For one dangerous second, the world narrows to a pinpoint.

I see myself lunging forward, clawing that smug expression off her face.

Instead, I smile wider—so sweet it stings.

“Thank you for your concern,” I say, voice like honey laced with glass.

She steps aside, satisfied she’s put me in my place.

She hasn’t.

She’s only reminded me what this is.

A stage.

A game with deadly stakes.

And I intend to survive it.

I shift my shoulders back, letting the house swallow me up as we follow the lieutenant down the hall, my boots thudding against the worn floors.

Every step, I tally the exits. Every shadow, I measure the distance.

Because there’s no cavalry coming.

There’s no fairy tale.

Just me, my instincts, and the cold certainty that if I want to live through this, I have to play the part better than anyone expects.

The perfect daughter. The perfect bride.

The lieutenant stops at a heavy double door, dark wood scarred with deep grooves like claw marks. He turns to me, his face as unreadable as stone. “Mr. Novikov will see you now,” he says.

I arch a brow. “Isn’t it bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?”

The words slip out, syrupy and insolent.

Alexy stiffens behind me, his voice a tight whisper in my ear. “Behave.”

I can practically hear the unspoken warning in his tone— this is not the place nor the time.

The lieutenant doesn’t smile. He doesn’t even twitch. “Mr. Novikov has no time for frivolities,” he says, stepping aside. “Enter.”

When I move toward the door, Alexy makes to follow—but the lieutenant’s arm shoots out, blocking him without a word.

Only me.

Of course.

I hesitate for half a second—long enough to feel Alexy’s tension spike behind me—then lift my chin and push through the doors alone.

The air inside is heavy with cigar smoke and leather, the scent sinking into the thick, worn carpet underfoot. The walls are lined floor to ceiling with dark shelves, stuffed with books that look more like trophies than anything to read.

A massive oak desk dominates the far side of the room, its surface gleaming, bare except for a half-empty glass of dark liquor and a sharp silver letter opener gleaming in the low light.

Behind it sits Bakum Novikov.

He is not handsome. Not young.

His face is all harsh planes and hard angles, as if it was chiseled by a man who valued cruelty more than beauty. His iron-gray hair is slicked neatly back, no softness to it. His black eyes—flat, bottomless—pin me where I stand.

The man who, by tomorrow, will legally own me.

He watches me in silence, one thick hand curling around the base of the glass, the other resting lightly—too lightly—near the letter opener.

A predator at rest.

Bakum leans back in his chair, studying me with the detached interest a butcher gives a side of beef before the cut.

“You’re smaller than I expected,” he says at last, voice low and even. “Your father made you sound…larger.”

I smile like it’s a compliment.

Inside, my skin crawls.

He says nothing else. No greeting. No plans for the ceremony. Not even a demand for obedience.

He turns his attention back to the papers on his desk, dismissing me with the tilt of his head, as if I’m nothing more than another piece of furniture to decorate this hollow, rotting mansion.

My fingers twitch at my sides.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

I had a plan—a simple one. Use charm, use beauty, use everything I’ve been taught to wield. Seduce him into underestimating me.

Manipulate him until I find a way out.

But it’s hard to seduce a man who doesn’t even see you as a human being.

I shift my weight, glancing around the room until my gaze lands on a small bar cart in the corner. Glass decanters shimmer under the dim light, filled with amber and clear spirits. Vodka. Whiskey. Rum.

Perfect.

I saunter toward it, every sway of my hips deliberate, casual. I run my fingers lightly over the rim of a crystal glass, tilting my head back toward him.

“Vodka, Mr. Novikov?” I offer, my voice syrupy sweet.

He lifts his eyes slowly from his paperwork.

Black. Flat. Soulless.

“I didn’t tell you that you could drink,” he says.

The bottle freezes midair in my hand.

For one long, horrible second, I see it.

My future.

A life of quiet orders and brutal corrections.

A husband who won’t see me, won’t love me, won’t even desire me—except as a piece of his empire to own and punish.

A cage so much smaller than I imagined.

I set the bottle down carefully, my hands steady even as something inside me frays apart.

“In my position,” I say, voice cool and precise, “and as your future wife, I would think I deserve a little respect.”

For the first time, something flickers behind his eyes—not warmth, not admiration.

Amusement.

The kind a man shows when a dog bares its teeth before being kicked.

He opens his mouth?—

—but a deep, sudden roar cuts through the air, rattling the old windows in their frames.